Deep Waters
by Sita Z
Summary: Starfleet red tape leaves Malcolm in a tight spot. Written for the Drown Malcolm Month 2007.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Not making any money etc. But guess what? Paramount does not own the Drown Malcolm Month, and we're not giving it up –smiles-.

**AN**: As usual, Gabi and Romanse worked their beta magic. Thank you!

This is an answer to Roaring Mice's challenge, and I quote: "November is Drown Malcolm Month. So, go on, do your worst to the poor dear."

Well, I tried :). Hope you like it!

* * *

Part I

_November 1, 2129, Leicester, England_

He could hear the splashing of water, their shouts and laughter as, one by one, they left the showers and trudged to their waiting towels. Reflected by the tiled walls, the sounds mingled so that he could not make out what was being said. Muffled clanks followed as the lockers were opened, clothes pulled out, and, more often than not, knocked onto the wet floor of the changing room. If he were out there, he knew his would be the first to land in a puddle of water, followed by his towel, and, on a particularly shitty day, his shoes, too.

_"Pick 'em up, Reedie, go on! Don't get yourself wet, though, or you gonna choke again! Aaghh, help me, help me! I'm gonna drowwwn!"_

He had to admit that it must have looked funny, that first day when the instructor told them to get "acquainted" with the water. Malcolm would have been perfectly happy getting acquainted at a safe distance, say, a few kilometers, or at least the bench on the far side of the pool. Mr. Davis, of course, wouldn't hear of it. He told the class to play quietly (meaning, please don't drown anyone just yet) and went to Malcolm, who was lingering on the stairs, hating the way the water wobbled around his ankles and tugged at his toes.

"Come on, Martin, there's nothing to be afraid of."

Behind the instructor's back, Patrick Cooper mimicked someone having a panic attack, without the sound effects, of course. Philip and Frank, his best friends and fellow participants in the popular sport of Let's-Chuck-Reed-Into-The-Dustbin, went into hysterics and almost drowned themselves laughing.

"I'm Malcolm," he mumbled, and instantly realized that he had made a mistake. Grown-ups didn't like to be corrected, and especially not by runty-looking eight-year-olds in faded plaid trunks.

Mr. Davis' smile slipped only for a second. "Well, Malcolm then. Why don't you join us so we can get started?"

Malcolm told himself that there was no way around it, that he would have to go in eventually, so he might as well get it over with. His legs had other ideas, though. They wouldn't move, and his hand, turning traitor, grabbed the railing like a life line. The water circled his ankles, a snare ready to pull him in.

"Well?" Mr. Davis was still smiling, but Malcolm heard the impatience in his tone. "Just go in slowly, Mar-, I mean, Malcolm. It'll be all right."

Patrick Cooper rubbed his face, imitating someone crying their eyes out.

_"Boohoo, Reedie, you afraid?"_

Five minutes later, Malcolm had moved down one step, the water now coming up to his shins. Mr. Davis was no longer even pretending to smile.

"Come on, now, don't be silly. It's perfectly safe."

It wasn't.

"Come on, Malcolm." A glance snuck at the clock. "Just do it."

_Just do it_. Philip and Frank flapped their hands, splashing water in his direction. _Just do it._

He couldn't.

But suddenly he was in the water, thighs, belly, chest, and there was a hand on his arm, dragging him forward, come on, Malcolm, see it's not so bad, and the water had him in its grip, pulling him down, closing around him, closing around his throat, and he couldn't breathe, he fought and struggled but it wouldn't let go coming closer closer-

He came to on the tiled floor next to the pool. Passed out from hyperventilating, Mr. Davis said, and behind him Patrick, Philip and Frank were hopping around like mad chickens, clutching at their throats and pretending to suffocate. The rest of the class was in stitches, of course.

Yes, quite funny, and it continued to be funny every week, everybody looking forward to the swimming lesson and Reed's next panic attack. Mr. Davis refused to give up on him. _"Everyone can learn how to swim. You just have to want it."_

That was exactly the point; Malcolm _didn't_ want it. And he couldn't make himself want it, no matter how hard he tried. It was like swallowing bitter medication or getting the belt when he'd misbehaved; he could get through it, but he couldn't make himself like it.

He never tried to skive the lessons; he'd rather face the water and the teasing than have Father find out that Malcolm had disobeyed him. It was the Rule Number One in the Reed household: disobedience in any kind or form was unacceptable.

Malcolm shifted on the seat of the toilet, suppressing a shiver. He was clad only in his wet swimming trunks, and if he hid in here any longer, he would be late. Mum allowed him twenty minutes to change and walk down the three streets to their house, and Malcolm guessed that he had been in here at least ten. Well, he could make it if he ran. Malcolm was very fast when he wanted to be.

He opened the door. The showers were empty, a forgotten towel lying in a crumpled heap on the bench in front of the lockers. The clock on the wall said a quarter past five. No way he would make it now even if he ran all the way home. Somewhere deep down in his belly, a familiar knot tightened just a little. Mum would tell Father he had been late, and Father, of course, accepted only strict punctuality.

At least his clothes would be dry this time. Count your blessings, as Aunt Sherry would have said, although Malcolm wasn't entirely sure what "blessings" were, and why they had to be counted. Maybe it was another way of time-keeping.

He was about to slip his undershirt over his head when a hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him so bad that he dropped the shirt.

"Where you been, Reedie, hiding in the lav again?"

Patrick, of course. They had been waiting for him. Malcolm's eyes flickered to the door that led to the foyer. Maybe he could make a break for it yet-

"Uh-uh, Reedie." Frank shook his head. "Not gonna run for it this time, baby boy."

He hated that nickname even more than "Reedie" or, when Patrick was having an especially good day, "Runtie". Having skipped a year, Malcolm was younger than the other boys in his class, and of course it made him the perfect target. Not that his being a target needed perfecting. Sometimes he wondered whether he had been born with a big red "L" on his forehead which he somehow failed to see when he looked in the mirror. It would certainly explain some things about his life.

He shook off Frank's hand. "Leave me alone."

"Leave me alone!" Philip mocked in a squeaky voice, clutching at his throat. "Ohh, I'm gonna choke! I'm hypoventerlating! Help!"

That's hyperventilating, you dumb fucker, Malcolm thought, but there was little comfort in knowing the correct word for the condition that had totally and utterly humiliated him in front of his entire class.

Patrick was the first to recover from his bout of laughter. "Whatcha think, Reedie, maybe we can do something about your little problem. You want us to give you a swimming lesson?"

Philip stopped his choking routine and grinned. "Yeah, let's give him some extra training!"

Malcolm tried to back away, bumping into the bench. "Fuck off," he said, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice. "Just leave me alone."

"I don't think so, baby boy." Patrick grabbed his arm. "Time for your extra special swimming lesson. Get 'im!"

Malcolm kicked and fought, knowing at the same time that he didn't stand a chance against the three of them. He was lifted off his feet and carried towards the door that led to the pool, and the panic climbed to the surface, spilling into his voice as he screamed for them to let him go.

Patrick sniggered. "Don't start choking just yet, Reedie, we ain't even started."

"No!" He could see the pool, blue and smooth and terrifying, and his breath quickened in his throat. He couldn't let it happen, couldn't let them throw him in.

His foot caught Frank in the stomach, and Malcolm's terror mingled with a brief moment of satisfaction when the older boy cried out in pain.

"You little fucker!" A fist caught him in the jaw, and the world grayed out for a moment. "Just for that, you're going in at the deep end!"

The panic returned full force, and he struggled, bit and scratched, clawing at every accessible bit of skin.

"Listen to that, he's choking already!" Patrick laughed. "Now let's see if you can choke _and_ swim, Runtie! One..."

They swung him back, and he squinted his eyes shut, not wanting to see-

"..two... _three_!"

For a short, frozen moment, he was airborne, and then the water engulfed him, closed all around his body. He screamed, his mouth filling with water. The world had turned into a blur of blue, there seemed to be no air at all, and somewhere someone was laughing, but it didn't matter, _nothing_ mattered, he was trapped, and the water was pulling him down, its cool, smooth fingers digging into his ankles. He saw bubbles rising in front of his eyes, saw his own flailing hands, and then, further down, the thing he had always known was there. It was lurking at the bottom of the pool, shapeless, colorless, waiting for him. He had never seen anything so terrible in his life. The image stayed even as his movements grew weaker, and just when the world started to fade away, the thing rose, smoothly, silently, like a cloud of poisonous smoke. It's coming for me, he thought just before his mind slipped away, coming to get me.

After that, there was only darkness.

* * *

_Slam._

The punching bag swung back, and he sent it on its way with a hefty kick, right into the middle of the Starfleet logo.

_Thud. _It was amazing how good it felt. Might feel even better if there was a photo of Payne pinned on it.

The bag swung forward again, back for more, and he attacked it with a flurry of blows, left, right, middle, wham, bam, thank you, Mr. Commodore, _sir_. The gray cover was dented like a tin can from his gloved fists, a dark smudge printed across the logo. The sole of his gym shoe must have rubbed off.

He jumped and turned in mid-air, his heel connecting hard with the side of the bag. Pop. He smirked. That one would have sent a real opponent crashing into the wall.

Falling into stance for the next round, he became aware of a strange sound, like a balloon deflating. The bag was no longer swinging back and forth; it dangled limply, a steady trickle of blue grains spilling on the training mat below. His last kick must have split the seam.

Breathing hard, Malcolm watched the bag bleed on the floor, and suddenly noticed that the room around him had fallen silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, their expressions ranging from surprise to open shock as they stared at him. Malcolm glanced at the rapidly shrinking bag and back at his audience. He hadn't even been aware of anyone watching him.

Trip was the first to speak. "Looks like you finally killed the poor thing."

Malcolm wasn't sure how to respond and settled for an apologetic shrug. His face grew warm under their stares. He must have looked like a madman. Which wasn't even that far from the truth, if he was being honest. When he had entered the gym, he had been furious enough to rip the bag out of its fixture on the ceiling and pound it into the deck plating.

_Well, that's essentially what you did, _Reedie_. Can't blame them for thinking you're completely bonkers_.

"I... I'll be back later." He nodded at the spilled intestines of the punching bag. Wouldn't be fair to Maintenance to leave it as it was. "Commander," he added, avoiding Tucker's eyes. He wasn't sure he liked the concern he had seen there. No one said anything as he left, and Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief as the gym door closed behind him.

He took a quick shower and made it as far as the changing room without encountering anyone. His hands ached, and although he had worn gloves, his knuckles were red and abraded from the force with which he had driven his fists into the bag.

_Aww, hurt yourself, Reedie? Poor whittle baby boy, what a shame._

Well, damn it all to hell. He didn't care what they thought, didn't care what anyone thought. The excruciatingly embarrassing conversation with the Captain was over and done with, and no one else needed to be told about his predicament. It wasn't as if they could do anything to help. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ them to do anything to help.

Malcolm slipped his black undershirt over his head. If he was quick, he could still make it to the messhall without encountering any of the senior crew. He'd grab a sandwich and go back to the gym later tonight. He didn't want any audience when he cleaned up the mess he'd made.

_Murderer returning to the scene of the crime_. The thought almost drew a grin, which was a first in today's track record. His mood had plummeted like a rock when the Captain had - quite apologetically – read the Commodore's memo to him, and it had been in the dumps ever since. Malcolm couldn't even remember the last time he had ruined a punching bag during training. Must have been quite a while.

"Malcolm?"

Damn. Malcolm turned around and tried for a neutrally polite tone of voice. "Yes, Commander?"

Trip, a towel wrapped around his hips, plonked down on the bench next to Malcolm. "Don't "commander" me, Mal." He leaned back, eyeing Malcolm thoughtfully. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know what you mean," Malcolm muttered.

"Mal, you went nuts in there." Trip indicated the door to the gym. "It was scary to watch."

"I suppose I got a bit... carried away." Malcolm picked up his gym clothes. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I've got a few reports I need to finish."

So much for his sandwich. Trip would want to join him in the messhall, and Malcolm wasn't really in the mood for dinner and a chat. Well, he still had one or two rations bars back in his quarters. It wasn't as if he was really hungry.

Leaving the changing room, he felt Trip's eyes on his back, and wished the Commander would leave well enough alone. He had quite enough on his plate without the prying questions, and, once they knew, the incredulous stares and the "amusing" comments.

_Oi, Reedie, looking forward to the lesson? Uggh, help me, help me, I'm gonna choke!_

_Look at those trunks, what are they, baby size? Poor baby boy, he so afraid, boohoo!_

_Hey, Reed, what's that on your back, someone push you into a fence or something? It looks disgusting._

Well, Stuart Reed had quite literally not pulled any punches when he learned that his son was failing the swimming class.

_Still failing them today, sir. But you wouldn't be surprised to hear that, would you?_

He might as well draw up a reply to Payne right away. Maybe he'd even manage to keep the invectives to a minimum.

Malcolm sighed and headed down the hallway to his quarters.

TBC...

I'd love to know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for your kind reviews!

* * *

Part II

"Anyone sittin' here?"

Malcolm didn't look up. "Please."

Trip, of course, was not deterred by the curt reply, coffee slopping over the rim of his cup as he sat down. Why the man hadn't suffered a heart attack yet, Malcolm did not know; Trip downed the stuff like water, two cups in the morning, two in the afternoon, and another one for dinner if he had anything planned for the evening.

"Here." A second cup of coffee was pushed towards him. "Y'look like you need it."

Malcolm hesitated; he usually preferred tea for breakfast. But after last night, maybe one of Trip's caffeine killers was just what he needed. "Thanks."

Trip raised his eyebrows at the response. Trading insults over breakfast had become a daily ritual for them, and Malcolm's next line would have involved the suggestion to look in the mirror himself, _Commandah_. A mere "thanks" was not what he had expected.

Malcolm ignored the look he was getting and took a swig from his coffee. The hot liquid burned his tongue, and he had to force himself not to spit it back into the cup. On second thought, maybe he should have skipped breakfast altogether.

"Malcolm?"

Trip's tone boded no good, and Malcolm sighed. He knew how he looked; he had seen the pasty-faced zombie in his bathroom mirror. He didn't need anyone else to remind him that he'd had a rough night.

"I'm fine, Trip."

Tactical error, he realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Shouldn't have brought up the F-word at all.

Trip's disbelieving snort told him as much. "Last time you said that, half the armory was in pieces and the doctor had you chained to a biobed in sickbay."

"In my experience, the doctor doesn't use physical restraints on his patients." Malcolm almost winced at the blatant evasive maneuver. His tactical skills, like everything else, weren't really up to par this morning.

Trip didn't even dignify it with a remark. "Come on, Malcolm, what's up?"

"Nothing." _Nothing I want to discuss, anyway._

Trip eyes him thoughtfully. "I could order you to go to sickbay, you know."

Malcolm put as much "why ever would you want to do that" into his voice as he could muster. "Trip, I told you there's nothing wrong. There's no reason why-"

"Your hands," Trip interrupted, gesturing with his cup. "They don't look too good."

Malcolm glanced down. Wonderful. He hadn't really paid attention to the stinging he had felt in the shower this morning; he'd been struggling to keep his eyes open at all, after falling asleep less than an hour before his alarm clock went off. Trip was right, though; his knuckles looked as if he had taken a cheese grate to them, bloodied and raw from yesterday's encounter with the punching bag. Automatically, he tugged at his sleeves to cover the offensive sight.

"You should let Phlox have a look at it," Trip continued. "You might've cracked a knuckle, the way you were layin' into that bag."

Malcolm said nothing. He had no wish to discuss anything to do with the incident in the gym, his obvious lack of sleep, the whole bloody mess. Bad enough he would have to deal with it some way, more sooner than later thanks to Commodore Payne. He hated it that the Captain knew, and he didn't need the oh-so-funny comments on top of everything else.

_How about another swimming lesson, Reedie?Where we gonna to start... that's right, you got to get used to the water, head in first... stop kicking, you little fucker, or I'm gonna flush this thing till you really start choking..._

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm blinked. For a second or two, he'd actually _been_ there, dripping wet, biting back sobs as he picked his soaked books off the grimy floor of the school lavatory. He'd smelled like a sewer all day, and of course he'd gotten the belt for ruining his good clothes. He hadn't even tried to tell Father that he hadn't voluntarily rolled around on the floor in front of the toilets; it would have been a "pathetic excuse", and pathetic excuses were one of the many things Stuart Reed had no time for.

The next day, they had dunked his head into the toilet again, and, back home, Malcolm had found out how to work the washing machine, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. When Mum came home from her late shift, his clothes were slightly damp but presentable, and he escaped another beating.

"Earth to Lieutenant Reed, come in."

Trip's voice returned him to the present. The engineer was giving him a strange look, and Malcolm realized that he had been staring into blank space for the last five minutes. He had completely forgotten about Trip sitting there. The lack of sleep must be doing weird things to his brain.

Trip's eyes were still on him, and Malcolm suddenly wondered what the engineer would think of runty, pathetic Malcolm Reed, whose name the teachers kept forgetting, who choked if he even got near the school pool. Most likely, he wouldn't understand. Malcolm was willing to bet that Trip Tucker had never seen the horrible things that dwelled under the rim of a school toilet basin.

Which was why Malcolm was glad to call him his friend. Among other reasons.

He emptied his coffee with one swig and got up. "I'm sorry, Commander, I've got an appointment for target practise at 0800. If you'll excuse me..."

On his way to the door, Malcolm was only too aware of Trip's eyes on his back. The man was probably trying to figure out whether Malcolm had gone completely insane, or whether it was just a momentary bout of lunacy. That was all right, though. Better a lunatic than a loser with a big red L on his forehead.

Malcolm didn't look back as he left the room.

* * *

_Time to face the lion in his den._

Under the circumstances, the saying was a little too close to the truth for Trip's tastes. Rubbing Malcolm the wrong way was never a good idea, especially since the man believed that revenge was a dish best served cold. Poor Ensign Craig had learned that the hard way, after doing an impression of a clipped British accent without realizing that his superior was standing right behind him. Trip had never seen anyone look quite so pale after hand-to-hand combat training.

But he'd dealt with snarky, snappy Malcolm before. It was the silent, absentminded Malcolm of this morning that worried Trip.

Having his hands full, he pushed the doorchime with his elbow. "Malcolm? You there?"

There was no answer, which was uncharacteristic. Trip's call might be about official stuff, and Malcolm would never ignore a superior officer on duty.

He had, on occasion, been known to ignore a friend.

Trip bit down on his lip. _C'mon. I know you're in there._

There was, of course, the possibility that Malcolm was sleeping, but Trip didn't think it likely. Malcolm rarely went to bed early; he had admitted once that he was prone to reading until long after midnight. This morning, he had looked as if he had hardly slept at all.

Balancing his burden with one hand, Trip used the other to knock on the door. "Mal, you home?"

At this point, he was probably making a nuisance of himself, but he didn't really care much. Something wasn't right, and Trip was determined to find out what it was, even if he had to annoy Malcolm into telling him. Which was what he was going to do now.

"Mal, I know you're in there. I'm not gonna go away, so you might as well open the door right away."

At that, the door did slide aside, startling Trip. He'd been prepared to stand out here and holler for quite a while.

Malcolm looked exactly as peeved as he'd expected. "Trip, in case you didn't know, there is such a thing as taking a silent hint, and I'd have thought even you-"

He trailed off, his eyes growing wide as he became aware of the object in Trip's hands. "What _is_ that, and why on Earth are you carrying it around the ship?"

Trip grinned and stepped past Malcolm into the Lieutenant's small cabin. "That," he said, setting it down on Malcolm's desk, "is dinner. Hawaiian Pizza, with extra ham and cheese. Here," he tossed Malcolm a can of beer, and the Lieutenant caught it out of reflex. "Careful when you open it, or it'll explode all over you."

"Well, it would, after you've thrown it across the room." Malcolm was still staring at the pizza, as if he couldn't conceive of it sitting on his otherwise painfully tidy desk. "What is that, giant size? Was there any left for the crew after you abducted this monstrosity from the messhall?"

Trip plopped down on Malcolm's small sofa and kicked off his boots. "Chef owed me a favor."

"Ah." Malcolm sat down on his desk chair, keeping a safe distance to the pizza. "And who is going to eat that? I know I'm not."

"Right." Trip was prepared for that. "Y'know, Chef was in a really good mood tonight. Even dug out the supply of non-resequenced pineapple he's been hidin' all this time. Somethin' about not makin' Hawaiian Pizza with anythin' but the real thing..."

Malcolm's glare could have melted an iceberg. Trip only grinned back at him. "Got any plates?"

Inspite of his earlier protest, Malcolm finished his first slice in less than two minutes, and Trip was relieved to see it. He knew that Malcolm hadn't been in the messhall since this morning, and then he'd only had a cup of coffee. Trip found himself biting back a smile when Malcolm lifted another slice onto his plate. The man had to be starving, and he had to admit that it was a kick, watching prim and proper Lieutenant Reed gobble pizza as if there were no tomorrow.

Malcolm polished off three slices in surprisingly little time, and even smiled a little when he finally set his plate aside.

"That was actually quite good."

Trip, knowing a "thank you" when he heard one, returned the smile. "You're welcome. I noticed that you didn't really have time to stop by the messhall today."

Malcolm took a swig from his beer. "Yes, the hardware overhauls took longer than I'd expected."

Trip said nothing, simply looked at Malcolm. A moment's silence followed, then Malcolm let out a small sigh and dropped his hands in his lap. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that. I know I was somewhat... tired this morning..."

"I noticed you weren't quite your usual charmin' self."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him. "I didn't sleep very well. It happens."

Trip wasn't fazed by the hostile tone; he knew that it was the only way for Malcolm to approach problems on a more personal level than "I'm fine, sir". "You didn't go see Phlox about your hands."

"It was hardly necessary." Malcolm's voice dropped another few degrees. "I'm not a child, Trip. I can take care of myself."

There was something about the statement that went beyond mere snarkiness. Trip sensed that any response on his part would be resented, and so he said nothing, simply leaned back and waited for Malcolm to continue.

He wasn't too surprised when Malcolm did.

"In fact, that's exactly what I would have written in my reply, had I been in the position to speak freely. Here," he grabbed something from his desk, and it was Trip's turn to catch the object flying towards him. "You wanted to know what was wrong, didn't you? They sent it just yesterday. The Captain gave me the good news after my shift."

Shortly before Malcolm had stomped into the gym with murder in his eyes. Trip took a closer look at the thing Malcolm had tossed to him. It was a simple padd, with an official-looking Starfleet memo on it. Trip began to read, stopping when he caught the name at the top of the page.

"Commodore Payne? Not that Payne, right?"

"The one and only." Thunderclouds gathered behind Malcolm's eyes. "One would think they'd have sent the man to the Mars colonies, or maybe Terra Nova II, but I suppose that would be asking too much. Every bloody-minded, idiot paper pusher they can find, Starfleet's going to preserve for eternity."

"Was him who told Jon he'd never have given him command of Enterprise. And at the official reception, no less."

It wasn't the only "objection" Payne had brought forward. In fact, he had felt obliged to remind Jon that space exploration was a "responsible task", which was unsuited for "the young, the provincial and to a certain degree even the fairer sex". Jon had told the man in so many words to fuck off, but for Travis, Trip and Hoshi, standing right next to Jon, Payne's little remark had pretty much killed the party. Eventually, they had laughed it off, but Trip still wished he had decked the man, Starfleet brass or no.

Malcolm nodded darkly. "I'm not surprised."

Trip scrolled down the memo. The further he got, the less he found himself able to believe his own eyes. Finally, he lowered the padd, realizing that he no longer wanted to deck Payne. He wanted to rip off the man's balls, roll them in breadcrumbs, deep-fry them and serve them to him with a full English breakfast - as one of the less violent options.

"He can't be serious."

Malcolm's mouth was a thin, hard line. "I assure you, he is. The Captain checked with Admiral Forrest. Payne's request is well within regulations."

"It's completely insane!"

"That, too."

Trip shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the most ridiculous – and spiteful – piece of red tape he'd ever come across.

"So... basically they're sayin' you've got to give them proof that you're able to do your job? Because..."

"Because I'm aquaphobic, yes. It's in my personal file." Malcolm wouldn't meet his eyes. "Payne told Forrest that he wouldn't recommend letting me keep my post if I'm not "fully reliable" in all situations. He included a list of potential circumstances under which my phobia might become a problem."

Trip was livid, but he still heard the strange undertone in Malcolm's voice. "Malcolm, don't go and tell me you think he's right."

Malcolm's eyes were fixed on an invisible spot on the wall. "It's true that I might not be able to react as I would under different circumstances... circumstances not involving close contact with water."

Trip decided that frying Payne's balls was too good for the bastard. He'd feed them to him raw. "Listen, Mal. That man – " he raised the padd for emphasis – "has never done anythin' but sit on a chair, scratch his nuts and dig up dirt on people who managed to do somethin' else with their life than flyin' a desk. He has no basis at all on which he could ever hope to judge your ability to do your job."

Malcolm shrugged, still not looking at him. "It's true, though. I can't stand to be close to large bodies of water. One time..."

He trailed off and shrugged again.

"Mal?" Trip prompted quietly.

Malcolm took a deep breath. "I start hyperventilating when I get too close. Back in primary school, a few classmates thought it funny to throw me into the school pool. I passed out... choked. If the swimming instructor hadn't happened to be there, I might've drowned." Finally, Malcolm raised his eyes, lips pulled into an ironic smirk. "I could swim, I knew how to do it. But I panicked."

Trip shook his head, hating the casual self-loathing in Malcolm's tone. "How old were you at the time?"

"Eight or nine."

"Eight. And you panicked. Yeah, I can see why you'd feel bad about it. Any other kid that age would've just laughed it off to be confronted with their worst fear."

Malcolm frowned. "It doesn't matter how old I was. It's not as if I've grown out of it." He let out a mirthless laugh. "Much to the disappointment of my father, of course. He went berserk when he heard about the incident at school."

It was said with a dry half-smile, which Trip didn't return. He could count on one hand the times Malcolm had spoken of his family, and he had never liked the half-sarcastic, half-apprehensive undertone when he did. Or the fact that the Reeds didn't seem to care exactly what their son did when he was hundreds of light years away from home.

Trip sighed. "Mal... when I was eight, a girl in my class stuck a spider down the back of my shirt. You know how I hate bugs and the like. I totally freaked out. When the teacher finally got it out, I had a cryin' fit. And the spider wasn't even poisonous or anythin', there was no reason for me to be scared."

Malcolm seemed surprised. "You were teased at school?"

Trip nodded. "Not so much about the spider thing, the teacher gave them hell for that. It was more about wearin' my brother's old clothes and shit like that." He shrugged. "We were five kids at home. Was no sense in buyin' new stuff for everyone when the old things were still okay."

Malcolm nodded, and Trip sensed that somehow, admitting that he, too, had been subject to teasing had done more than all his earlier rhetoric. He was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to pull Malcolm close and hug him tight, in spite of the fact that he'd end up on the floor of the cabin if he tried any such thing. Or maybe with an alien spider down the back of his uniform, depending on how the mood took Malcolm.

The familiar half-smile crept onto Malcolm's face. "Well, they used to call me "Runtie" and dunk my head into the toilet."

Trip paused for a moment; he hadn't missed the flash of pain in Malcolm's eyes. But the other man was smiling, chuckling even. "And it seems that they're still doing it." He nodded at Payne's memo. "In their own, Starfleet way, of course. I suppose I'm the eternal loser."

Trip grinned. "That makes two of us. Don't forget those pictures they've got of me at Starfleet Medical. You know, after... when I was pregnant. That spells..." He formed an L with his thumb and index finger and held it to his forehead. "Loser."

Malcolm actually laughed at that, and Trip was happy to see it. "You're about the last person I'd call a loser, Trip."

"Same here." Trip shook his head. "Mal, you saved our asses more times than I can count. Your staff practically worship the ground you walk on, the Armory Department back at Headquarters fight over who gets to read your monthly report first..." A blush crept up Malcolm's neck, engulfed his ears. "I don't gotta tell you all that. I just don't see why you'd ever think you're in any way unfit to do your job."

"There's still Payne," Malcolm pointed out.

"Screw Payne. He says he needs a superior officer to confirm that you're able to deal with that kind of situation. Well, he can have that."

Malcolm frowned. "You're not planning to falsify reports, are you?"

"I'm not gonna falsify anythin'. He'll get what he wants."

"But how-"

"You leave that to me."

Malcolm looked suitably horrified, and Trip grinned. The longer he thought about it, the better he found he liked his idea.

TBC...

Chocolate-covered pineapple chunks to everyone who presses the blue button :)!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: -hands out chocolate pineapple candy- Thank you for all the lovely reviews!

For anyone who is interested, a Slash version of this story can be found at the Warp 5 Complex (try "Search" if it's no longer in the "Most Recent").

Thank you for reading!

* * *

Part III

Malcolm buried his toes in the sand. It was a nice feeling, he had to admit; very different from the smooth, hard tiles of a pool, or the black, bottomless abyss of the sea. The water was lapping gently at his ankles, and he found he didn't even mind the immediate presence of the lake. Well, maybe "pond" was the word he was looking for; the entire place would have fit twice into Enterprise's shuttlebay.

"Y'okay?"

Malcolm half-turned his head and nodded. Yes, he was okay, very much so, in spite, or maybe because of the fact that he was on an uninhabited planet, about to swim in an alien pond, accompanied by no one else than his personal swimming instructor, Commander Charles Tucker III.

"Mal?"

Malcolm blinked. "Yes, Commander."

A handful of drops was flicked in his direction. "Name's Trip." Trip smiled and stepped a little closer. "Wanna give it a try?"

Malcolm nodded, slowly wading further in until the water circled his thighs, enveloping him like a soft, cool blanket. He could still see the bottom of the pond, and there was nothing that shouldn't be there, only a few patches of gently undulating fibers and schools of small, translucent fish whizzing here and there. Carefully, he explored the soft ground under his feet. A few pebbles knocked against his toes, and he flicked them away.

"I've never gone swimming in a lake before."

"Really?" Trip sounded surprised.

"No, it was always an indoor pool or the sea. Felt rather different than this."

"I never liked swimmin' in pools. Hate the chlorine." Trip smiled. "Wanna go in a little further?"

Malcolm hesitated. He was feeling all right where he was, but he wasn't sure if he wanted the water over his waist line, closer to his head and airway. He might start choking, the way he had done before.

"It's okay if you wanna stay here." A hand touched his arm, closed around it. "We got all the time in the world."

Trip's hand on his arm was warm, reassuring, and Malcolm realized that it wasn't so much the swimming out in the open that was different. For the first time, he didn't feel pressured to prove himself, either in front of his sniggering classmates or a stern, disapproving Stuart Reed. Trip was happy to let him do this at his own pace, on his own terms. If he decided that he wouldn't go in any further, that was perfectly all right.

He glanced down, surprised when he found that the water was coming up to his stomach. He must have walked another two steps without even realizing it.

"Still remember when Lizzy had her first swimmin' lesson," Trip said somewhere to his right. "She had this huge, inflatable dinosaur; must've been twice her height. She didn't let go of it the entire time."

Malcolm smiled at the image of a small blond girl in a swimming pool, proudly holding onto a giant plastic T-Rex. Maddy had had a toy quite like it.

"In fact, she wouldn't go into the water without it, until I showed her how to do this."

Trip slid into the water and suddenly turned over on his back. Spreading his arms and legs, he floated spread-eagle on the water.

"She got the hang of it right away."

Malcolm watched Trip as he drifted, eyes closed, the sun warming his upturned face. It looked peaceful. In fact, he wouldn't even mind trying it himself. He'd be supported by nothing more than a few billions of H2O molecules and one wrong move might unbalance him, but at least he wouldn't have to keep up an even stroke while the water sloshed and splashed all around him.

All he'd have to do was concentrate, and he could do that.

Slowly, focusing on his movements, Malcolm took another step forward before he let himself glide into the water, just like Trip had done. Usually, this was when his throat would start closing up and his breath would quicken as if he were having an allergy attack. He did feel some pressure, building deep down in his chest, but it was still under control. He could do this.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned over on his back, spreading his arms and legs. The water didn't close over his face as he had expected; it carried him, like it would a leave or a piece of driftwood. Malcolm floated, secure in the knowledge that the laws of physics wouldn't let him drown.

Experimentally, he closed his eyes, and found that it was quite all right. He had never done this before, voluntarily turned his eyes away from the feared element. It felt... good.

He wasn't sure how long he had let himself drift, eyes closed, like a content otter in a forest pond. At some point, he became aware of gentle waves buoying him, while, at a distance, someone was singing happily and rather out of tune. Opening one eye, he saw that Trip had turned around again. The engineer was doing lazy strokes, slowly swimming towards the middle of the pond where a large, mossy boulder rose from the water.

"What song is that?" Malcolm asked.

Trip turned his head. "I like bananas because they have no bones."

At that, Malcolm almost lost his balance. "Pardon me?"

"It's the name of the song." Trip grinned and started singing again. "Cabbages and onions, hurt my singin' tones-"

"I don't think it'll make much of a difference," Malcolm muttered. Trip flicked a few drops of water in his direction.

"I'll have ya know I sang in the school choir for five years."

"Your poor teacher."

"Oh, shut yer mouth, Loo-tenant."

Trip resumed his strokes, and soon he had arrived at the boulder and began to climb on it. Malcolm watched him. The boulder was almost at the center of the pond, about thirty meters from the shore. The water next to it would be about three or four meters deep. Malcolm paused to consider the concept. Except for his involuntary excursions in the sea and the school pool, he had never swum any distance where his feet could not touch the ground. Even now, he was floating on water that would barely come up to his chest if he stood up.

Trip had stretched out on his stomach, his head resting on his arms. Fragments of his off-key singing drifted over to Malcolm.

"...I don't like your peaches, they are full of stones..."

He rather looked like a strange sort of water sprite, singing on that rock all by himself. If there was such a thing as a water sprite wearing Hawaiian trunks and singing a daft song about bananas.

Thirty meters.

Malcolm bit down on his lip. It wouldn't be easy.

Pulling his arms and legs back, he turned over, his feet immediately scrabbling for the ground. The water almost reached his neck as he stood up. He must have drifted a bit further away from the shore. Malcolm felt the pressure return, rising from his chest into his throat, and was about to beat a hasty retreat when he remembered how closing his eyes had helped before. Wouldn't hurt to give it a try.

The water disappeared, as did everything else, and it helped him concentrate. He knew how to do this, had gone through the motions many times before. All he had to do was concentrate.

Malcolm took a deep breath and pushed himself off the ground.

He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his arms as they parted the water, his legs as they kept him afloat. It was all right. There was no one there but Trip, and he didn't seem aware that Malcolm had willingly ventured into deep water for the first time in his life.

"...don't give me tomatoes, I don't like ice cream cones..."

How many stanzas did that song have, anyway? Or maybe Trip was making them up. Malcolm kept his eyes closed. His breathing was still normal, if a little shallow, and there was none of the mind-numbing panic he was so familiar with.

But he would have to do this with his eyes open, as he would in an emergeny situation.

Another deep breath, and he opened his eyes. To his surprise, the boulder was only a few meters away. He had swum almost the entire distance without even realizing it.

And he hadn't panicked.

A wild feeling of triumph filled him, carrying him the rest of the way, and when he touched the boulder, he couldn't help grinning like an idiot. He had done it.

A hand was held out to him, and Malcolm looked up and into Trip's face.

"C'mon."

Malcolm let himself be pulled onto the rocky perch, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Ridiculous, maybe – after all, all he'd done was swim thirty meters in a shallow pond – but he couldn't help it.

Trip grinned at him and for once, said nothing, and Malcolm realized that he could not have been further from the truth, assuming that Trip hadn't been aware of what he was doing. More likely than not, Trip had watched his every move.

They sat on the boulder for a long time, letting the sun warm their skin, and Malcolm found himself getting drowsy. At some point, Trip chuckled quietly.

"What?"

Trip shook his head. "I was just thinkin'... I'd love to see Payne's face when he reads our report."

Malcolm nodded, a grin tugging at his mouth. "He's not going to be amused."

* * *

_November 1, 2153, Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco_

"Good morning, Billy."

Commodore Walter Payne nodded at his secretary, a young man with the name of Billy Sokolsky, who had the remarkable ability of looking scruffy even in a Starfleet uniform.

At Payne's greeting, Billy immediately snapped to attention. "Good morning, Commodore Payne, sir."

A strand of black hair fell into the young man's face, and Payne frowned. There should be a regulation disallowing male members of Starfleet to let their hair grow past their collar. Payne made a mental note to send Admiral Forrest a memo on the subject. For the female members, who had to be taken into account as well at this day and age, a footnote should suffice. "_All female personnel are required to wear their hair (a) short, i.e., above the collar, or (b) pulled back from their face, if possible in a bun."_

Payne was rather fond of footnotes.

"As you were, Billy."

The young man sank back into his desk chair, looking relieved. "The reports are on your desk, Commodore Payne, sir."

"Of course they are, Billy." Payne smiled thinly. "You put them there every morning, don't you?"

Billy nodded quickly. "Yes, Commodore Payne, sir."

"So there is no need to inform me that the reports are there, as it is part of the daily protocol."

"Uh..."

Payne sighed. Young people these days seemed unable to articulate themselves without resorting to grunts that seemed more at home in a prehistoric cave.

There should be a footnote about a proper manner of speech required of all Starfleet personnel.

"Don't worry about it, Billy." Payne let out a long-suffering sigh. "I shall be in my office."

"Yes, Commodore Payne, sir."

Billy's tone hitched in mid-sentence, as it often did these days, and Payne shook his head. There were times when he had the impression that the man was skirting a nervous breakdown; he had never seen anyone quite so jumpy. Not exactly a desirable trait in Starfleet personnel. Maybe he should put a note about it into Billy's file, make sure the man never got posted on a starship.

Payne prided himself that Starfleet's best interests were, at all times, his utmost priority.

Once in his office, he went through his morning ritual of wiping down his desk and computer screen with a small cloth he kept in a drawer for that very purpose. It wasn't strictly necessary; the cleaning personnel supposedly took care of things like that. Payne sighed when he saw the thin layer of dust on the cloth. Sadly enough, the saying "If you want something done right, do it yourself" applied to Starfleet, as well.

True to his word, Billy had left the reports on the desk, albeit in a rather disorderly fashion. Payne had long since given up on explaining his idea of competent paperwork to his secretary; the concept of an orderly system seemed beyond the man's comprehension.

He picked up the first padd, scrolling through it before he dropped it with a dismissive sniff. The janitor was asking for paid leave again. Good thing the man had to run his requests by Payne, or the lawn in front of the central building would never see a lawn mower at all. He typed "request denied" into the reply box, hitting the send button a little harder than necessary. The sheer gall of the man never failed to astound him.

The next padd, a note from Forrest concerning the Beecher case, he dismissed immediately; he had made up his mind, and wasn't going to be swayed by Forrest's "conciliatory" appeals. In his world, an incident of gross insubordination was no joking matter.

Reaching for the next in line, he paused. A subspace message from Enterprise, sent by one Commander Charles Tucker III. Payne frowned, trying to place a face with the name, until it came to him. Tucker, Archer's pal, the Southern redneck with the horrible accent. He'd had the misfortune of meeting him at the pre-launch reception, along with the rest of Archer's less than trustworthy choice of senior staff. Payne's mouth twitched. Surely the message, whatever it was, would be rife with spelling mistakes.

He scrolled down. "... _inform you that your query regarding Starfleet Regulation 21 Beta, Section 54, concerning Lieutenant Malcolm P. Reed, Serial Number 0-380733, has been taken into account..."_

No mistakes, after all. The redneck must have had someone look through the letter for him. Or maybe write it for him. Chuckling at his own wit, Payne read on.

_"... as Lieutenant Reed's line officer, I can confirm that he is in every respect capable of handling the situations listed in Attachment 23-B, including military action close to and in large bodies of water and the rescuing of drowning crewmates. A detailed report on a test situation supervised by Lieutenant Reed's line officer on duty is included in the attachment."_

Payne's smile faded. It was all there, the report, the confirmation, everything, and there was not a thing he could do, even though he knew that the upstart limey was in no way qualified for the post. Payne had been looking forward to recalling at least one of the so-called "Starfleet's finest", and now the redneck, of all people, had found a loophole in the regulations.

He threw the padd on the desk, and only then became aware of a postscript he had ignored so far.

_"Hope Commander Tucker's response meets with your approval. By the way, if you ever even think of slinging mud on any member of this crew again, I'll personally file a harassment charge and have them remove you from duty. Permanently._

_Signed,_

_Jonathan Archer, Captain"_

It took Payne a full five minutes to move again. Then, he picked up the padd, dropped it into a desk drawer and pushed it to the very back, never to be looked at again.

Case closed.

FIN

Trip likes bananas, I like reviews, so… press the button :)?


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